A Week of Solitude
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Harry runs away after the last battle, feeling guilty and angry for hurting so many people. Ron, in an attempt to not deal with Fred's death, goes after him. The two live together for a week, trying to understand everything that has happened.
1. Chapter 1

**Dedication: To Harry and Ron, who I torture and tease more often than my brother. And they never complain once.**

**A/N: This is somewhat AU. I guess it could of happened, but most likely not. It features a very loyal Ron and a very angsty Harry.**

"_I guess he always knew I'd run out on you."_

"_No, he always knew you'd want to come back." __**Harry and Ron, Deathly Hallows**_

"Ron!"

Ron didn't turn around. He knew he'd start crying if he did. He didn't want to cry in front of her. Hermione...she didn't understand. She couldn't. He had to do this.

"Ron, please. Think of your family!"

He kept walking. Harry needed him more. He would be there for Harry. Finally, he looked over his shoulder. God, she was beautiful. Even covered in the blood and dirt from the battle, even though her robes were ripped, even though her hair was coming out of its percise bun, she was beautiful. "I love you, Hermione." he said, quietly, knowing she'd hear him. Hoping she'd understand.

She did. She dropped back. "What about your family?" she tried again, a last-ditch effoert to make him stay.

Ron couldn't listen. Nothing was wrong with his family. They were okay. All of them. Bill was with Fleur, Charlie wasn't even there, the twins --

No, everyone was okay.

Hermione caught his hand as he went to turn around again. She was in tears, tears Ron didn't have himself. He hadn't cried tongiht. He was probably the only one who could say that. "What about me, Ron?"

Gently pulling his hand away, Ron kissed her. The kiss lasted for a few seconds. It was robotic; it had no warmth. "Stay at the Burrow. I love you. We'll see you in a week."

He had to leave. Now He could never leave with her going like this.

"You love me." Hermione said it quietly, knowingly. Of course he loved her. She'd always known that, somewhere. "I understand, Ron." she said to his retreating back. He was leaving her. She knew that. She understood that.

Ron was getting further and further away. He was leaving the school. Leaving the grounds. Leaving her. Because there was someone out there who needed him more. Someone who only Ron could save. Hermione had always promised herself she wouldn't come between Ron's friendship with him. She wouldn't be the girl that broke that up.

So she watched Ron until even his flaming red hair was swallowed into the light. It was only when he was completely gone that she let the tears flow again.

**It's supposed to be short. Don't worry, everything else is way longer.**

**Review, please?**


	2. Truths

"_The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing and therefore should be treated with great caution." __**Dumbledore**_

Ron spun to a stop in a clearing and nearly fell over from exhaustion. He needed to sleep. He really hoped Harry was here, because he couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

The clearing was warm, green, and buzzing with life, a huge contrast to the icy whiteness that had covered it the last time they were there. He put down the heavy backpack he had brought at the last minute, knowing he _would_ fall over if he had to carry it any further. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, looking half-heartedly over his many cuts and bruises for any new signs of splinching. He was probably the worst when it came to Apparation.

Luckily, there were no new cuts, but as Ron turned around to check behind him for his friend he had to bite back a moan of pain. His _back_. The cuts were deep and hurt worse now than they had before. Or maybe he just had time to remember them now.

He managed a small smile when he saw Harry sitting by the edge of the small pond, staring into its depths. Ron started towards him -- after all, this was the reason why he had come. But he stopped suddenly, turning back towards the pack. "_Accio tent_." He muttered, an afterthought. He waved his wand again to erect it, happy that he had thought of bringing it along. He had also brought enough food for the week. They were not having a repeat of those long months…

Pausing for a second, he wondered whether he should do the protective spells they had cast for months. Voldemort was dead and gone -- Ron had seem it himself. But there were still his followers out there. Who knew how many Death Eaters hadn't been caught? He murmured the spells, weaving an invisible barrier around the small clearing.

Starting over, he walked towards Harry again, just _looking _at him. There had been that one terrible moment during the battle when he had thought Harry was dead. It hadn't mattered to him that Harry was the prophesy, the Chosen One, the only person who could defeat Voldemort. To him, his best friend had just died.

But that didn't mean he had escaped unscathed. Though Harry was mostly injury-free from what Ron could see, he knew that Harry would be carrying around feelings of guilt. Harry always had to play the hero, and last night there had been people he just couldn't save.

In the slowly brightening light of the rising sun, Ron walked nearer to his friend. Bringing his hand up, he was going to touch Harry's shoulder. Thinking better of it, he sat down next to him instead.

Harry still stared vacantly over the pond. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, his hair was more of a mess than usually, his mouth hung slightly open. Wondering if he could bring his friend out of this apparent stupor, Ron opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Not knowing what else to do, Ron slowly, carefully, peeled off his robes and his shirt, letting the three long stripes on his back touch the air. A groan of relief caught in his throat and he plunged his hand into his jeans pocket, searching for the bandages he knew were there.

Harry, apparently, had no idea that Ron was sitting next to him. For once, Ron found patience. He would stay here until Harry needed him. He had nothing else to do.

His hand trembled as he clumsily tried to wrap the bandages. The angle was awkward, and he couldn't get them tight enough. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ron gave an extra-hard tug on the strip, an unwelcome gasp escaping his lips.

Rough, callused hands closed around his, gently prying the bandage from them. "What happened, Ron?"

He had been prepared to wait all day, all week, for Harry to speak to him. He had been prepared to forgo sleep to stay up next to him until he needed to vent. He was extremely happy it hadn't come to that. "_Sectumsempra_." He muttered, the word coming out like a curse.

"You look terrible." Harry said, his voice quiet as he came off his higher perch, squatting next to Ron so he could wrap the bandage securely around him.

"Look who's talking." Ron retorted wincing as Harry tied the strip off. Harry was now face to face with him, though he wouldn't look Ron in the face. Harry's hand brushed over Ron's back, his face a picture of guilt. He opened his mouth but Ron cut him off.

"Don't even think about it." Ron said, cutting it off. "It wasn't your fault. If it helps any, Lee got that Death Eater good. Pushed him out a window I think."

"You shouldn't have done that." Harry said, eyes vacant.

He was thinking of his sister, who had been crying just before Ron left. He thought of Hermione, who's whole body was shaking under his kiss. He thought of the wounded and grieving, who were looking for a leader. "You shouldn't have run out on every one." Ron replied, carefully not looking at Harry's face now.

Harry pushed him. Ron fell back off his heals, trying and failing not to let his back touch the ground. He lifted his head just in time to see Harry disappear under the water. He whispered a curse under his breath.

The whole "be patient" thing was completely out the window now. Ron watched for Harry, making sure he came up for air. Suicide was not an option at this point. Hermione would kill him if Harry died on his watch.

The sun was officially up now, making the clearing golden. Leaves fell into the pond and scattered in the wind. The dew on the grass dried under Ron's hand. Small, invisible birds called to each other just outside the clearing. Ron was too tired to care about how beautiful it was.

Aching, tired, and angry with both himself and Harry, he dragged himself back towards the tent, leaving Harry to stew in the water. He needed to sleep for about a year before he could even begin to deal with emotional, guilty, angsty Harry.

He fell to sleep before he could reach the quiet of the tent, one arm out, the other folded protectively over his back. He dreamed of two faceless red-heads, an angry bespectacled boy, and a quietly concerned girl.

**I'd imagine Harry would be too angry to talk to Ron, but what do you think? Please review. **


	3. Day One

**Chapter 2, Day 1**

_"We'll be there, Harry." _

_"What?"_

_"At your aunt and uncle's house. Then we'll follow you, wherever you're going." **Harry and Ron, Half-Blood Prince**_

Ron was at the Burrow. He looked out his window, gazing at what was sure to be a beautiful day. Smiling, he turned towards the bed Harry usually occupied. The bed, like everything else, was second and third hand (passed down from Bill and George when they both outgrew it. Harry had outgrown it, too, but was always much too polite to mention any discomfort)

It wasn't Harry sitting on the bed. Ron watched as Hermione trailed a finger across the page of the heavy volume she was reading, how she would smile at something on the page, how one hand kept coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

God, she was gorgeous.

Harry walked in, smiling at Ron. Ron, surprised, smiled back. Harry rarely smiled these days, especially because of something as simple as a beautiful morning. Harry stood next to Hermione, looking down at the book she was reading, then looked over at Ron and shook his head. Ron snorted, knowing exactly what Harry was thinking. It reminded him of when they were at Hogwarts, during those rare times where the most important things were schoolwork and girls.

Midway through his laugh, Ron noticed the scene changing. Hermione's smile grew grimmer, Harry's hair grew longer, their faces becoming drawn with fatigue and depression.

Then they were gone.

Suddenly, Ron was standing in front of two graves. Unwillingly, he was brought forward until he could read the letters on the first grave.

**Harry Potter**.

The stab in Ron's stomach was a physical pain, bringing him to his knees. He felt his insides curl into a thousands tiny fiery knots until there was nothing left but pain. Harry...it wasn't supposed to be that way. The hero wasn't supposed to die. In all the books, the sidekick had gone first. And Ron had been okay with that.

Ron turned his head away as the second gravestone came into view. He didn't want to know. Harry -- Harry was too much already. Ron couldn't live without Her. And he knew that She was dead. Sure enough, the grave read **Hermione Granger**.

The knots disappeared, the pain disappeared. Ron thought...nothing. He touched the stone, emotionless, and kissed it as he should have kissed her a thousand times. "I'll join you soon, Hermione. Both of you. You won't have to wait long. We won't have to wait."

And Ron stood up with a sense of purpose. He couldn't live without Hermione. He would have been a wreck without Harry, but Hermione was the love of his life. Or course he'd join her as soon as possible.

The tears were pouring down his cheeks and Ron trudged through the smoky darkness. "No." The word came out a whisper, a half-sob. Then it became a yell. "No!" They weren't supposed to die. They weren't. It was supposed to be him. He would have been okay dead, knowing they were still living.

"Ron. _Ron!_"

Someone was shaking him. Looking up, Ron almost smiled. He didn't remember killing himself but it had been quick, painless. "Harry." He murmured, smiling. He was okay. Harry was here, with Hermione nearby. Death would be fine.

"Ron!"

Someone was shaking him harder, and the scene changed again. He was falling into a grave of fire, it was dark, and a shape loomed over him, emanating pure evil. A dementor?

"Ron, please wake up!"

There was still that scream. He had to get to the person screaming. For some reason he thought it was one of the twins. He wouldn't know. He's never heard them scream like that, as if they were in actual pain. As if something mattered to them more than a joke or a laugh.

"Ron!"

Harry again. But Harry was dead. A sob interrupted the scream and Ron wanted to tell the twins to be quiet. Didn't they know he was killing himself? He had to get to Harry again. Harry and Hermione. He had to tell her he loved her, tell her she meant everything to him.

It felt as if he was breaking the surface of a layer of ice. Ron gasped, breathing in air, sucking it as if he hadn't been able to taste it for a while. The scream kept going, but stopped as soon as he realized what was going on. The sobs, though, the tears and cries. They kept coming from Ron himself.

"Ron." Harry's broken voice came from somewhere behind him. But Harry was dead. Was he, Ron, dead too?

Shaking off the remnants of the dream, Ron tried to sit up. Rough hands pulled him down even as he went to lie back. His head was pounding with his racing heart."Wha' happene', 'arry?" Ron asked thickly, trying to speak past the tears that refused to stop.

Harry -- solid, brooding, living Harry -- spoke, stopping every few seconds to collect himself. It wasn't until later that Ron realized Harry had been crying too. "You wouldn't...you wouldn't wake up, Ron. You just kept screaming and crying. It woke me up and I didn't know -- I thought you were being _Crucio'd_ or something." He was quiet for a second before saying, quietly. "You scared me. You wouldn't wake up, even though I kept calling for you. I thought...I thought someone was hurting you."

Ron could only nod. He reached for Harry's hand and managed to squeeze it once before Harry pulled away. Ron could sense Harry standing up, Could sense him moving away. A stab of pain flashed through him at the thought of Harry still being distant. Forcing the emotion back, Ron silently berated himself. _For once in your life, Ron Weasley_, he told himself, _be patient_.

Be patient. Well, Ron was never one for patience. Sighing, he leaned back until his head rested on his hands and he stared straight up at the brilliantly blue sky. He thought for a moment about going inside the tent to get some rest but dismissed it. He didn't want to be stuck in that tent. That stupid, cat-smelling tent.

But he was tired. Closing his eyes, Ron let the sun bounce off his skin. He would burn. He found he didn't care. Just letting the sun touch him felt great, mostly because he hadn't felt the sun for more than a few seconds since last July, thanks to them being the most wanted people in Europe.

Harry was still on the other side of the lake. Ron wondered what he was thinking about. Was he thinking about Dumbledore and seeing him again? Or maybe his parents and Sirius and Lupin. Poor Lupin, he hadn't deserved to die, not after having a baby. Not after (finally) getting together with Tonks. No one had deserved to die.

He had been so lucky. There were nine in his family. They had been around Harry for seven years, with Ron and Ginny being intimately involved with most of his injury-prone adventures. No casualties. None except...

No casualties.

Rolling onto his stomach, Ron sneezed as the smell of plants hit him full force. He felt his eyelids drifting closed and welcomed it. When was the last time he'd slept without the fear of being killed? What a question.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Harry stepped over Ron's body as he went into the comfortable confines of the tent to sleep through the most beautiful day in four years.

**Sorry this took so long, everyone. You ever write something, then lose it? Yeah, that's what happened. I was too depressed to do much about it. But then I found it. So...yeah. Review. Please. 'Cause that would help**


	4. Day Two

_"Oy, there's a war on here." **Harry, Deathly Hallows**_

**Chapter 3, Day 2**

Ron waded into the water. Somehow, he thought he'd never feel clean. So much had happened in nine months that was just...dirty. He had taken off his shirt and shoes, leaving them on the water's edge and walking into the water wearing only his shorts. He lay on his back, looking up at the sun, knowing he already had a fierce burn on his face and arms. He could heal it with magic, of course, but...

He hadn't performed much magic since the Battle. To light a fire. To cast the necessary protection charms. To set up the tent. But that was it. Somehow, doing magic was dirty too.

He had killed someone. God, he had killed a person. A living, breathing human being. That made him no better than the Death Eaters they had been trying to defeat. What if that person had had a family? A mother, friends, a father and sister,

A brother.

Ron closed his eyes, though he didn't need to. He remembered the scene. He had been on patrol, just him and Lee Jordan. Harry had gone into the forest. Hermione was tending to the wounded with Madame Pomfry and various other students. Even though there had been a ceasefire called, the Order didn't want to take any chances, so they set up a patrol.

Ron had been hit with _Sectumsempra_ from behind. That's what had caused the huge welts that Harry had seen when he first arrived. Lee had been worried, shocked, and had tried to heal the wounds without looking to see who had cause them.

The Death Eater -- he couldn't have been much older than Ron -- had pointed his wand. Ron saw him open his mouth, had known that the next words out of it would be _Avada Kadavra_. He had known that in seconds, he or Lee would be dead.

So he had rushed forward, forgetting about magic and law, feeling a primal urge to defend himself kick in as he hit the Death Eater, a solid smack to the side that sent him tumbling out of a huge hole in the side of the school. He had fallen over fifty feet before Ron heard the sickening crunch.

Lee assured Ron in the minutes after the death that it had been necessary. He even thanked Ron for doing it, saying that he would be dead if Ron hadn't acted so quickly.

For the briefest second, a terrible thought blew through Ron's mind. Why was Lee any different from the boy Ron had killed -- murdered--? Except for the obvious fact of sides, Lee being on one and the Death Eater on the other, the boy could have been either one of them. And most of the people, kids, fighting on the other side didn't want to. The damn _Imperious_ curse.

The pond was shallow, and Ron allowed himself to disappear under the surface. At the deepest point, his feet could touch the bottom and his head would be covered by a foot of murky water, shot through with the beginnings of sun rays.

Ron allowed himself to sit there, literally drowning in self-pity. He was a murderer. He had killed a member of someone's family, taken away a life. That was irreversible, unforgivable.

It was beautiful at the bottom of the pond. Small fish swam to him, completely unafraid. He felt something larger -- a turtle? -- move past his ankles.

Suddenly he was on the surface, gasping for air, and Harry was behind him holding his head above the water. The scene was so reminiscent of their Fourth year that Ron would have laughed out loud. They had been so much younger three years ago. They had known nothing.

"C'mon, mate, there you go. What were you doing down there anyway?" This was a different Harry from the brooding boy he'd first met in the clearing. This Harry had much more in common with the boy he'd befriended in First year. The boy who had no idea what Hogwarts was, who stood up for Ron against Malfoy…that boy was still in there, somewhere, hidden behind layers of guilt and anger.

Ron hesitated from telling Harry his reasoning, though, because in seven years fighting the forces of Voldemort, he'd never killed a person. He was incapable of it. Something inside Ron didn't want Harry to know that he had slipped, come up short, and stopped another boy's life.

"Nothing, Harry, just….Hermione." He hadn't realized he'd been ht inking of the girl until her name came out of her mouth. She would understand, and Ron would tell her as soon as they met again. A sigh escaped his lips, one of longing and regret. He shouldn't have left her like that, she would be mobbed, of course. Where has the Chosen One gone? He was abandoning the world at one of the most pivotal times in history. And Hermione would have an answer for them.

She's have an answer for him, Ron, too. They would sit together someplace -- the Burrow, maybe, or Grimwald Place, and he'd tell her everything. He'd talk to her about Harry, and she would give him the advice he so desperately needed. He would let her know about the Death Eater boy, and the Kill or Be Killed situation, and maybe they'd both understand it. And she'd talk to him in her soft, beautiful voice about Him, about Them. And Ron wouldn't cry thinking about the laughing red-headed boy and a mountain of rocks.

Tears stung his eyes, and he quickly blinked them away. This was supposed to be Harry's week. He was here because Harry had left, and whenever Harry leaves there's a problem to be solved. Always. And Ron was the sidekick, after all.

Suddenly, Harry wasn't behind him but next to him, spread-eagled on the grassy meadow. They sat in silence for a time, and Ron found himself peering at his battle scars.

He had quite a few, more even than Hermione. He touched his leg where he had begged Madame Pomfrey not to sew it completely, leaving a memento of the broken leg and that long, long night in third year.

His arms were covered with more memories. On his left were the deep welts left by the brain from the Department of Mysteries. He remembered little about that night, but Ginny had told him all the details he missed, including the fact that Hermione had been hurt worse than him. His right arm, and indeed most of his body bore the remnants of the small cuts he'd sustained during the cave-in of the Chamber of Secrets, and event that he had long tried to forget. That night always brought to mind, not the basilisk or the tunnel, but his brother's faces as they realized their own sister had been taken. When they realized they hadn't protected her.

Further up on his arm was the patch of slightly discolored skin. A newer scar than the rest, it was from splinching. He really needed to learn how to Apparate. Passing the test and doing it legally was up there on his to-do list as well.

At last his finger rested on the long scar above his eyebrow, stretching across his forehead. The only thing that remained from their first adventure. He had fallen hard against the chessboard, and that fall would bring with it so many more. It was Hermione he had seen when he first woke up, a younger Hermione, and less confident one, though she had the same smile.

"You love her, don't you?" Harry's voice ripped through the quiet day like a gunshot. Ron turned slightly and saw Harry was smiling wryly. Thinking it was unnecessary to deny it, he nodded.

"I guess I always knew you two would end up together. Still kissing during a battle? Not your smartest move, Ron." The smile remained on his face, making the teasing that much lighter.

The friendly banter made Ron certain of his suspicions. He knew a moodier Harry would follow this one, but decided to take advantage of this friendlier version while he could. "She kissed me, if you remember, and not even a cage of Lockheart's pixies can stop 'Mione when she has her mind set on something."

Harry laughed and nodded, but the laugh didn't reach his eyes. The green orbs stared across the lake, through the beautiful clearing, looking at something invisible and terrifying. Cautiously, Ron placed his hand on Harry's jeans, assuring him that the monster would be conquered by the two of them, eventually.

"You really love her…" Harry murmured again, as the invisible monster sent spikes of terror to pierce his heart.

**How do you like it? Next chapter is serious Harry angst, and a not-so-patient Ron, so stay tuned. **

**As always, please review.**


	5. Day Three

"_You can't bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it all out, there might be some people fifty miles away who haven't heard you." __**Fred Weasley**_

**Chapter 5, Day 3**

Ron was procrastinating.

He _knew_ that he should just use magic to re-light the fire that had been at the middle of their clearing for three days before it suddenly burned out. But just studying his wand made him feel sick to his stomach, and he had a feeling that actually _using_ magic would just make him feel worse.

Of course, he could always let Harry light it once the younger boy got out of the pond. Ron shook his head just thinking of the small body of water. He didn't know what magical properties it had --- for it had to have some, that he was sure of --- but it seemed to get bigger every time they went in it. They had spent many hours in that pond, and many more on the grassy bank next to it, drifting in and out of sleeps that were plagued with nightmares.

Ron yawned and stretched. Though he had just slept through the night and most of the morning, he was still tired; a deep kind of tired that reached though his bones. In the past three days he had been asleep more often than not, but it would probably take the rest of Ron's life to catch up on the hours he'd missed over the past year.

Harry waded out of the lake. Ron watched as the dark-haired boy shook his head, sending drops of water around the magnificent clearing. "Yo, mate, over here!" Ron waved his hand, trying to get Harry's attention, and took the glasses out of his pocket. After morphing into his friend using the Polyjuice Potion, Ron would never again belittle his friend's blindness.

Harry harrumphed and moved towards him, picking up discarded pieces of clothing as he went. Both boys decided they were most comfortable in a pair of short muggle pants, but the rest of their wardrobe was necessary for the cooler nights.

_Finally_, Ron thought, watching Harry's expression. A benefit of being friends with someone for seven years was that you knew just about all of their expressions. This Harry was about to blow, and Ron was ready and waiting for it. Really, he had wondered how Harry had lasted this long. Harry was many things, but patient was not one of them.

Just before Harry got to him, Ron folded the glasses so they were tucked back in his hand. This, predictably, made Harry shoot him an angry glare that ended up being pointed at his chin. Trying desperately not to snicker --- for that would have ruined the whole point of this, after all --- Ron said, quietly, seriously. "Harry, listen, you…you know I'm always here, right? To talk?"

In fifth year, before Harry was due to arrive at Grimwald Place, Hermione sat Ron down and told him what to say and what not to say. Letting Harry know they were _there to talk_ was one of the only things allowed. Mostly, according to Hermione, you just listen.

Harry's glare became hard and cold and he took a swipe at his glasses, ending up brushing the air two inches from Ron's hands. "Damnit, Ron! Just give them to me!"

Ron opened his hand, allowing Harry to take the glasses and jam them onto his face, adjusting them and glaring directly at Ron before starting to turn away, no doubt to brood.

The Weasleys were not known to let people walk away angry, and Ron, after three days of an unpredictable Harry, wanted to get this over with. "You might feel better, you know, if you talk about it."

"Talk about what?" Harry whirled toward him with surprising agility, and Ron decided it would be better, and safer, for him to be on his feet. "Talk about how I died? How Voldemort's gone? How about talking about those people who followed a seventeen-year-old into battle, expecting a leader? Instead, they got me. They got killed."

Something stirred inside Ron and he felt inexplicable tears sting his face. _Must be because of Tonks and Lupin_. He said to himself, before returning back to Harry and the conversation at hand.

It always seemed, in situations like this, that Ron was left helpless to watch Harry muddle through his emotions alone. He hated knowing that he could do nothing more than offer a sympathetic ear to Harry's problems, which were often vastly larger and more complex than anything he should have to deal with.

In seven years, you learn a lot about a person. Ron learned that when angry, Harry would resort to two things --- quietly brooding until provoked, then yelling. This was one place where Ron couldn't match his friend. He wasn't a yeller, though often speaking softly or sharply had much the same effect, especially if what you said was short and to the point.

"I told people, when I was younger, when I could still stop it --- I'm not worth it. Really, I'm not. But it seems like I start all these things, and once the ball starts rolling it just picks up speed." Harry's voice had come down a few decibels, and Ron chanced moving an inch closer to him…another inch.

"I know." God, did he know. He wasn't a rookie when it came to near-fatal battles, nor did he usually shy away from wand-to-wand combat. One of the things he and Harry had spent a lot of time on this past year, when the clues were slow in coming and morale was low, was practicng defense. Harry was paranoid, saying they could be attacked at any time. Looking back on his Hogwarts years, Ron mentally winced and agreed with him. Trouble seemed to find Harry, no matter where he went.

Now Harry turned away, looking across the lake, at the unseen monster on the other side, and whipped back to face Ron, his face contorted, his features out of place. "Then how did I become the ring leader? The general of all these forces? Why do people come up to me? Why do they _follow_ me? I hate it! I hate knowing its my fault when people get hurt or…or die."

Now it was Ron's turn to look away. He remembered something Charlie had said to him, years ago, maybe when he was thirteen. They had taken a walk, just the two of them, out to the village to get supplies for supper. "You and your friends". Charlie had said on the way back, both their arms laden with groceries. "Are probably some of the most influential people in the world right now. Did you know that? Harry, naturally, because of who he is, and what he's done. He's a born leader, isn't he?"And Ron had to agree with that. Harry was a good leader. Something about his voice and eyes and demeanor made people follow him, sacrifice in his name.

"But Hermione, too. One of these days people will learn she's the brains behind your whole operation." Charlie smirked at him, and Ron blushed. His twenty-two-year-old brother had never been a serious relationship, but he had seemed to know from the get-go what Ron had taken years to figure out; that he and Hermione were perfect together.

"And you, too, little bro." Charlie had studied him for a few minutes then, the silence stretching as they plodded along the dirt path. "You're…you're the brave one." Ron had snorted and dismissed it. He wasn't the brave one. He was the one who cared the most, maybe, and the one with most to lose, but he wasn't brave. He was content with his role of the sidekick.

Now, facing Harry on the bank of the extraordinary pond, Ron decided use some of his brother's arguments. "It's because of who you are…what you've done. Harry, you've got to remember that people know you as the guy who defeated Voldemort as a baby, as the kid who saved the Philosopher's Stone in his first year. You don't know how persuasive you can be, when you believe you're right. And we are right, mate, whether you like it or not. We're the good guys."

"Good guys aren't supposed to die." Harry bit back, hackles raised, eyes narrowed, a circling, calculating dog. "How many did we lose in this last battle, Ron? Fifty? Sixty? The good guys are supposed to be untouchable. Well, we weren't were we?" He laid down each word deliberately, each one set up to cut Ron a little deeper. "Remus and Tonks, dead." Ron recoiled instinctively, thinking of the new couple, of their child, only months old.

"Colin Creevey. Snape. Alicia Spinnet." Each name rained on Ron like artillery, digging into him, wounding him a little each time.

Harry looked at him coldly, impersonally, and Ron stared back at him, panting a little, each name physically hard to hear. Harry's mouth opened a last time, let loose the final blow. "Fred."

Ron stared at him for a second, mouth open in disbelief, betrayal, then turned around and fled into the words, running from the name of his dead brother.

**Oh, Harry's so mean. Bad Harry. He doesn't mean it, though. I don't think.**

**Poor Ron, putting up with him. Oh, it's Ron's chapter next. Dealing with Fred's death. For all those who are confused, the first step in grief is denial. What's next?**

**Please, please review. **


	6. Confessions

"_What? Books and cleverness? There are more important things. Friendship, and bravery." __**Hermione**_

Harry watched as Ron ran from the clearing and felt anger drain from him, leaving him with layer upon layer of guilt.

He had known from the moment Ron had appeared in the clearing, from the moment the boy had begun talking, that Ron was a step behind him on the process of grieving. Denial never seemed to last long for Harry.

_Fred_.

You couldn't help but love the twins, Harry thought as he walked slowly after Ron. Deliberately slowly, to let Ron cool down, though quick enough to get there before anything permanent happened. It was a delicate balance, one that could only be achieved by not thinking about it. But the twins were a particular specimen, a being of themselves, completely made of each other and separate from everything else. They were twins, of course, an oddity, and closer than the few other twins Harry knew had been, infinitely closer. But there was something else --- an aloofness without being cold, compassion without being close, morals and values while laughing. Nobody else could achieve that.

With only half of a being, could it still survive? Harry preferred not to think about George, not now when he was trying to comfort Ron, make up for his mistake. He'd worry about George later.

Fred.

He'd been the first Weasley to talk to Harry (was he? Or was it George? That kind of thing would matter, now, if it hadn't before.) He --- they --- had played with Harry on the Gryffindor Quidditch team until they had been kicked off with them. They'd been the first to sign up for the DA. They'd been in the first wave of people to come to the…to the battle.

Harry regretted yelling at Ron --- oh, how he regretted it. He had just been looking to make someone as angry and upset and frustrated as he was, and it had worked and then some. Ron's emotions must be even deeper, even more poignant than Harry's. Brothers, brotherhood. Another thing the Weasleys had taught him.

Disjointed thoughts filled the journey towards Ron (who must have been crashing though the forest, by looks of the trail of destruction he'd left behind him.) Most revolved around twin red-heads as Harry combed through his memories for one with Fred or George without the other nearby, just around the corner, at hand. He couldn't find one. That was depressing.

The Weasleys, in a kind of twisted reality, were _lucky_ (a terrible word) to have suffered only one casualty in the war, after all the fraternizing they'd done with Harry. Casualty. That was a another terrible word. It did nothing to show the emotions, the depth of what it represented. Death was permanent, endless, and difficult, if only for those left behind. The thought of waking up every day, going through laughter and tears and miracles and tragedies without someone who previously had been so important was heartbreaking and depressing.

Ron.

He had finally stopped running, and Harry, in turn, slowed his pace so he was just behind a cover of thin branches. Harry watched, mortified, as Ron collapsed onto a convenient stump, new scratches stretching up his arms and over his face, crying. _Oh, Ron_.

There was no way Harry deserved him. None. Ron was too loyal, too funny and brave and hopeful for pessimistic and angry Harry. Ron had never deserted him (well, except for that one time, but that was stupid and they won't mention it. Oh, and Fourth year…yeah, that was stupid too, but everything but those), and had always stood up for him. He had been present for a good number of Harry's nightmares, had listened as Harry recounted attacking his father, had patiently stood by the Heir of Slytherin without missing a beat and with a fair few laughs.

There was no way Harry deserved this kind of loyalty. Not when he said such terrible, unforgivable things. _Fred_. As carefully as he could, Harry took a step towards Ron. Another. He pushed aside branches quietly, watching, fascinated and embarrassed, as Ron cried for his lost brother.

Ron never cried, not that Harry knew of, probably another product of growing up in a family of boys. Seeing his break down was new for Harry. He didn't like it.

Clearing his throat, Harry took one more step forward. Another. "Ron?"

The boy looked up. A thousand emotions reflected in his eyes — pain, betrayal, grief, anger, regret, love— before he passed his fists over them and the emotions were gone, replaced with compassion. "Wh'a the matter, Har?" Ron began to stand up but Harry waved him back down, himself kneeling on the slightly damp ground.

"Ron," his voice must have betrayed him, for Ron began to shake his head, smiling slightly. "Don't bother, Harry. Remember Fourth Year? Remember what you told me? We're blokes, we don't need apologies." His statement was weakened somewhat by the low sob at the end.

"Oh, Ron." Why, why hadn't Harry noticed him before? For three days he'd been next to Harry, taking whatever Harry dished out patiently. He had been around, a constant reminder that a friend was not far off, while Harry had been gone in his own world, completely removed from Ron's grief. "You don't get it. I'm wrong." He hesitated, then leaned forward slightly to rest his hand against Ron's pant leg.

Ron glanced at him, eyes shielded, wary, thought a candle of hope flickered. Harry continued. "I shouldn't have been taking the Battle out on you. And Fred…" He watched as Ron flinched away from the name and tried a different tactic.

Gently, Harry pressed against Ron, propping himself upright. "Why aren't you with your family, Ron?"

The other boy didn't seem to notice the question and he was evading Harry's gaze, "I didn't….I mean, I guess I knew he was….that he wasn't coming back. I knew all along, but I couldn't stand to be around them. Mum and dad were both crying. I don't think I've ever seen dad cry. And George…none of us could look at George. We all felt so guilty, like it was out fault, because of the all the people to die, Fred wasn't supposed to be one of them."

Harry gave up on his attempt to stand and collapsed again to the ground. "Who was supposed to die, then? Does anyone really deserve it?"

Ron nodded absently, confirming this statement, then burst out, seemingly against his own will, "But _Fred_." His voice broke on the name and Harry looked up to find Ron crying.

He never knew how to deal with tears. Harry was always grateful that Ginny wasn't a crier, because he wasn't a very good comforter. He didn't know what was different about this situation either, as he leaned forward and grabbed Ron's hand. The security he felt just holding the large, freckled appendage was overwhelming. Ron's hand tightened around his and Harry guessed that his friend, like himself, was grateful for an anchor in this storm of overwhelming emotions.

"It was supposed to be me." Ron muttered as the tears subsided. Blue eyes opened, lashes still rimmed with tears, and locked onto Harry's waiting green ones. "It was supposed to be the sidekick, Harry, that's how Beetle always wrote it. I was ready. I don't mind dying. Not for someone I…" There was a manly aversion to the word _love, _possibly because it was unnecessary. Love was the reason the two were together, sitting in the clearing. It was the reason Fred and George and all the others had joined in the battle. It was the thing they fought for, in a way, protecting those they loved.

Harry hugged him fiercely and felt Ron's collapse against his chest. It was an odd feeling to not be the one breaking down, for once, but the one picking up the pieces, or attempting to. He said several useless things, mostly assurances that everything would be okay, before setting Ron straight. "Ron." He almost hoped Ron wouldn't look at him, or else he'd start crying again too. "Ron, if you had died…" a cold pit settled into Harry's stomach at the very thought, "I… don't know what I would have done, what Hermione would have done." It was slightly more manly to bring Hermione into it, to keep from admitting total weakness. "I definitely wouldn't have been able to kill Voldemort. I was barely able to, with everyone…else."

Fred, Dumbledore, Dobby, Snape, Lupin, Tonks, Colin Creevey, Sirius, Cedric, his parents, a hundred more, a thousand more. Ron would have been too much, would have tipped the balance. Harry would have not had the….the strength, the guts, whatever it had taken….to defeat the greatest enemy of their time.

Ron wiped away the tears with a sense of finality, as if sending himself a message that that was _it_, he wasn't going to cry any more. He looked at Harry and smiled slightly, and Harry smiled back, locking the secret between them. "C'mon, Ron." Harry held out his hand and Ron grabbed it, wrapped his arm tight around it, pulled himself up. "Best be getting back."

As if to make up for the rare intimacy of the moment in the woods, the two spent the walk back in laughter and jokes. Harry watched as Ron struggled to smile throughout it all, a battle he ended up winning with himself, if only for a while. He knew that the coming night would be filled with more nightmares for the both of them, but for the first time he was thinking not about _if_ he would rejoing the Wizarding World, but _when_.

**Go Harry. You can be sympathetic if you try!**

**As always, please review. **


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